Dowsing for a Path with Heart

DOWSING FOR A PATH WITH HEART

Picasso Complex, Lafayette,
Province of Northern California

“Close your peepers and open your third eye,” Sylvia coaxed. “Now shift your attention deeper within. Focus on your pineal and pituitary glands. Go to the light inside. That’s where they are. It is easy to find. The light is pure delight. Breathe deep!”
At these words, a ripple flowed through Mayama.
“I see light,” she whispered. Inside her head, amber colours morphed into a brilliant orange mountain, clothed by the sun.
“You are the light.” Sylvia said.
Wellness radiated throughout Mayama's being. She murmured contentedly, “thank you so much Sylvia. Everything around me is light.”
Blissed out and lightheaded, she was technically incorrect. She did not see everything. The human spectrum is far too narrow for that. What she did not notice was invisible to the naked eye. Two aliens were observing their every gesture in the safety of room twelve, the planetary observation theatre for the Sirius Empire.
“Mmmmmmm,” Mayama groaned.
She felt warm oil touching her belly.
Sylvia’s familiar hands strayed away from Mayama’s temples. Expert knuckles bounced like tiny Irish river dancers over her abdominal cavity.
Mayama felt relaxed. Two gentle women in their youthful prime, living out an uneasy relationship that was not deep enough to be comfortable, but too caring to run away from.
“Mmmmm mmmmm,” Mayama muttered, “I don’t deserve this.”
“You’re a goddess,” Sylvia whispered in her ear.
Mayama forgot all sense of time. Other than a vivid imagination, the young woman did not own much stuff. Unaccredited folk like her fell through the cracks of the meritocratic system.
It had to be like that. Mayama was an impoverished girl in an abundant world. Her family roots were dislodged from mainstream society years ago. She was registered by Terra Technocrat databanks, but not certificated, not linked into any but the most basic entitlements. Being a right-brained sensitive came at a huge disadvantage: empathy did not pay the bills. Drifters drifted for a reason. When there’s nothing left to lose, the open road offered what the human soul needs most: freedom.
“Try to wish for something really big and magic. Don’t tell me. Just wish it hard, over and over. That way you make it come true.”
Mayama’s mind was spinning down into a sinkhole of cravings.
“Make another wish to the light inside your heart.”
“Mmmmmmmmm, more.” Mayama murmured.
“Breathe slow, deep and free,” Sylvia said, “It is the holy grail of health.”
“Aaaahw,” Mayama grunted in pleasure.
Relaxation made her slide back into a dreamy trance of disconnected imagery and wishful thinking. Over the past months the Bay Area was unexpectedly good to her. City life has its advantages. During her twenty-seven years on terra firma, Mayama had developed into a sensitive visual artist. Like Darwin on the Beagle, she explored reality in drawings.
Mayama took all her courage to progress towards her essential I AM. Her mum had called it God, the Source of All. But what is real progress in human existence? Life had to be more than just a search for ever greater comforts. The trick of living maybe was create a perfect bucket list. On that, she was still working.
“Expand your heart chakra,” Sylvia coaxed.
“Yummm, I feel raw energy churning in me. It’s amazing.”
“That will be your Dionysian energy,” Sylvia said.
“I wish I had tools to paint what I feel now.” The tools she had to document the world and measure progress in her journey, consisted of brushes, oil paints and pencils. She was a dreamer, a useless empath.
She painted at leisure each day, having the luxury of spare hours. Indeed, she was the proud owner of a wealth of time. More time than butlers, businessmen and even billionaires had.
Unlike most people however, Mayama and Sylvia were of monumental importance to the unfoldment of fate. They were lead actors in the Great Play that lay ahead.

The Picasso Complex
The Picasso Complex had its foundations firmly planted in the soils surrounding San Francisco. Dali and Mondrian were the names of the other two complexes. Together the three buildings formed a multi-layered letter A and U. From the air this design branded the housing cluster as belonging to the Artist Union. The architecture capitalised on a subconscious connection with gold.
At the moment, the media wall in Sylvia's apartment showed scenes of a Whole Earth Geographic documentary. High in the sky above the Valley of the Ten Peaks, a few hang gliders moved graciously and quietly through the air. At times they appeared to head straight into the room.
A strikingly beautiful redhead with part Chinese features stood in front of a carbon fibre massage table. Sylvia was able to climb scales that only musicians can capture. Five nights a week she played the claxophone with an all-girl band in the Vixen Horns.
“Ah yum,” Mayama murmured, slipping even deeper into a delicious trance.
Sylvia interrupted the motion of her right hand for just a moment, enough to change the channel to an alpha broadcaster. The hang gliders over the Rockies disappeared. Deep space entered the living room. A symphony of sounds enveloped the place with a pressing wall of music. The Laniakea composition brought the reconstituted sound and light experience of a Big Bang. She played Mayama like the claxophone.
Sylvia, quite in contrast to Mayama, was not a drifter. She always had been a solid second-class citizen. Her parents had a job and assets. She didn’t last long in relationships. The living arrangements she had gone through had always become just that, living arrangements.
She’d rather imagine herself a fantasy life with someone who could really turn her on. Someone like Friedrich Nietzsche, the scholar she took for a soaring genius. Sylvia treasured the memory of the man. If they could only reconstitute his DNA double as a virtual companion at an affordable price.

Taking a training session in Galvanic Skin Response Processing turned out to be a toe-curling experience.The class she was about to undertake was intended to heal any outstanding blocks she may have in her character development.
When the White Senses debriefer closed the door behind him, Mayama saw her inner alter ego in a glass wall. A double, but with her skin and hair radiating all colours of the rainbow. What showed up was another entity that looked like her, but in a totally different mood.
“How do you feel,” an unknown voice asked.
“A bit nervous.” Mayama sat alone in a pitch-dark room, looking at her double.
Her double stared back at her. A more self-assured version of herself.
“You are observing the reflection of your inner self. You are free to disagree with me about the interpretation of its meaning.”
Mayama eyed her look-alike suspiciously, while her module started its programmed set of questions: “Name seven words that best describe your current feelings.”
“Creative, searching, uncertain, hassled, incomplete, limited, ungrounded.”
“Which of these words has the greatest visual effect on your astral double?”
“My second last word, limited,” she answered.
“I agree,” the machine said. “So let us take a look at some slow-motion replays of your subconscious feelings about the concept of ‘limitation’.”
Before long the McVivven program determined that she had lost a vital part of her motivation to enjoy life.
“It seems you are somewhat depressed, Mayama. Meditate momentarily on the word ‘joy’ please.”
The conclusion did sound ominous: “I advise you to take immediate steps to remedy this situation.”
“What should I do?”
“It would be best to allow the disintegration of your present personality, and re-assemble a new self with improvements.” she was advised. “You will keep all your memories, but you will like yourself better!”
The McVivven holographic personality disintegration program was doing its work. Mayama became mayama became maya became ma.
That’s how she fell ‘asleep’. When the subject's brain activity showed she was receptive for programming, Cheng activated John Cotton's ninety second brainwave recording. A week later maybe she spotted a light crawling closer and brighter. And even before she could distinguish its fine features, it spoke: “I am Hasu, and I will be your guide.

Mayama was left senseless in her cubicle; deaf in a well without echo. Alive, but only partially awake, her body was in perfect suspension. Mayama’s brainwaves were on stand-by only. Her mind was a tabula rasa, relaxed like a racehorse without a jockey.
A long time after, the ocean was parted by a fog bank, from which a magnificent looking old sage stepped forward.
“I am Hasu,” the loin-clothed sage said, leaning on a carved walking stick, “and Hasu will be your guide.” He looked somewhat like Mahatma Gandhi in his later years.
“Why you?” Mayama wanted to know.
Hasu moved closer to her. “Because I am the one you trust most.”
“You do look trustworthy,” the young woman admitted.
“I am the most trustworthy person you could imagine.”
Mayama was astonished that she would trust an elder sage more than anyone else. Why trust this complete stranger? Why not trust a relative, an old friend or a respected teacher, a famous sportsman or one her favourite movie stars.
“I can hear your thoughts,” the sage said. “Let me show you why you trust me above all others.”
He changed himself abruptly into a series of strangely dressed characters from ages gone by and ages to come. A stern king, a caveman hunter-gatherer, a mariner, a solar patrolman, a Martian settler, a librarian and dozens of other weird and weirder personages. Once as a clump of lights floating in black water.
After this series of changes in appearance he came back as the old sage again.
“Which form do you like best for Hasu,” the sage asked.
“Your current form,” Mayama was glad to admit.
“I am happy you say so,” the sage told her. “That’s why I coached you into this choice.”
“How do you mean,” she asked.
“Never mind”, Hasu said, “I better explain who I am.”
He tapped his stick against the egg-shaped chair she laid in. It made a metallic sound that acted as a wake-up call.
“I am Hasu,” the sage stated. “I am a spirit being, best described as an intergalactic intelligence. Human in heritage like you, I exist on a much higher frequency platform, invisible to the untrained eye. You reached my plane of existence when you exploded your subjective reality, through the McVivven 4th generation holographic personality disintegration program.”
“I remember that,” she said thankful to get her bearings back. “Am I still in the White Senses Institute?”
The sage hesitated. “Sure, but you are aware of the world in a different time frame.”
He lifted his staff, and a ray of lightning escaped from it. The bolt ducked and weaved its way through the air and into Mayama’s forehead.
“You made two quantum leaps in time consciousness,” Hasu continued.
He calmly informed her that her ordinary, day to day consciousness ceased functioning.
“Am I dead, physically?”
“Not at all,” the sage chuckled reassuringly. “Your physical shell will be alive for as long as you want to. Let’s just say that your limited self has defragmented. Now you have started to reassemble a new configuration of self, in a different form of the universe.”
He saw her puzzled face and added. “Not in a different location from where your body is, but a few octaves removed.”
Mayama laughed nervously “I don’t feel particularly at one with this universe Hasu. More scared than anything else if you must know.” Was this madness? “Are you a hallucination,” she asked.
“In a way I am, and in a way, I am not,” came the reply.
Mayama felt cheated and rephrased the question: “I mean, are you real?”
“Neither of us is alive in the sense you are used to,” Hasu explained. “This is a level of awareness in which ordinary time is experienced as passing by very slow. Here, take a look for yourself.”
He offered her his hand and pulled her up until she was in a sitting position. Before Mayama had eyes only for Hasu, now she found herself sitting in the middle of a small room, cubicle 143. The first thing Mayama noted was that she could see right through the walls. In the streets outside, traffic and business had come to a seeming standstill.
The second thing freaked her right out. Behind her, a see-through duplicate self lay back in the egg-shaped chair. Yet here she was, halfway out of her own body. This must be my dream body, she thought.
“It doesn’t look like a world which has a whole lot to offer,” she remarked. “You don’t have to stay here,” the sage informed her.
“What’s the use,” Mayama complained, “everyone looks kind of dead.”
“Here on Earth that appears to be the case,” Hasu agreed, “but there are many places in this universe where people live at our timeframe.”
The young woman became suspicious. “Why then are you so interested in this creepy world, where everything stands still?”
“It doesn’t quite stand still Mayama,” Hasu replied patiently. “And I am fascinated by this planet, because I am a romantic.”
“You, a romantic?” Mayama studied the old sage with disbelief. Then she remembered that Hasu could take any form he wanted.
The sage ran his hand up and down the fine markings on the shaft of his walking stick. “I am a student of humanoid civilisations, because I think they are romantic,” he replied. “I travel the universe, studying underdeveloped human planets like yours.”
Mayama decided to voice her doubts. “Are you a living human or a ghost?”
Hasu reached out. “I am real. You cannot hold the hand of a ghost. Ghosts have no solid body. I was born a humanoid. My cradle stood in the M74 galaxy.”
Mayama was astounded. “Are there are more people like you around Earth?”
“There are at least forty-nine of us planet-side,” Hasu informed her.
Mayama was struggling to comprehend it all.
Luckily the old sage tried to cheer her up. “It’s not easy to adjust to your new state of consciousness,” he advised her, “but you do not need to worry. You will have time enough to learn. From now on you can live eternally.”
“That’s a long time,” Mayama admitted, but the idea of an eternity bugged her. “How old are you?”
“A few millions of your years.”
“That’s incredible,” she gasped.
“It’s not too bad,” the sage agreed. “And it is my fault you are scared, because my sense of humour stems from the galaxy of my birth. I therefore do understand what ails you. You need to talk to a human from Earth, and I know just the guy you should see.”
She heard a strange sound coming from his mouth. Every cell in her body seemed to be awake.
Not a second later Mayama heard a new voice, with an old Irish English accent.
“Good day Mayama, my name is Bernard. I am a friend of Hasu.”
She looked up to see a man with a narrow face and inquisitive eyes. He just appeared out of nothing, in a sloppy tweed suit with a faded fishtail pattern. This kindly gentleman struck her as congenially old fashioned; in speech and looks.
“His name is Bernard Shaw. I know him as Master George.”
“You mean George Bernard Shaw, the playwright?” She had found refuge in Shaw’s works as a teenager. He was one of her literary heroes, when she was relegated to being a third-class citizen without property.
“That’s him!” Hasu swung his walking stick to tap his friend on his back. “I call him Master George because he is still very young in intergalactic terms.”
“You’re supposed to be dead,” she burst out. “I read several of your works as a student.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah. I read a saying in your futuristic plays that talked to me. You wrote: ‘You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul’. I took that to heart and I paint to see the soul of things. I just love your sense of compassion for all living beings.”
“That’s me,” Bernard affirmed with a smirk. “I do better with compassionate students, than with the hard at heart, who mainly value reason.”
His instantaneous arrival still puzzled Mayama. “Where did you come from just now?”
“From Space Community O’Neill.” Bernard pointed upwards.
“And you are an intergalactic spirit being, like Hasu?” Mayama was trying to understand. “How can that be? I’d swear you’re from Ireland.”
“Well, I used to be from there,” the great playwright said, “before I moved to London.”
“And you are dead?”
“When I passed on in 1950, for some lucky reason I was granted life eternal when my spirit saw the light. Contrary to all my earnest ravings as a critic, such as my like of some dictators and dislike of religion, I have come to love the heavens now that I am here in my body of light. Light bodies are much better than a flesh and blood body can imagine.”
“Don’t you miss your old home,” she asked, thinking about her cosy room in Sylvia’s flat in Lafayette.
“Miss what?”
“England and Ireland of course. Europe.”
“Yeah, sometimes,” Bernard mused, while he made himself comfortable sitting on the edge of her egg-shaped module in cubicle 143. “But the human level is a veiled experience for me now. My intergalactic timeframe here is twice removed from my old human timeframe. Two quantum leaps away, so I really have to refocus my vibrations and hold it steady at the human density. It takes all my energy and leaves me exhausted.” He folded his arms. “Besides, it isn’t allowed officially by the Sirius people, who monitor Earth’s unfolding.”
“Which serious people, Bernard?”
I am talking about the star people from Sirius A and B. You have not met those people Mayama, but you have heard of UFOs. Sirius people are star people. They move much faster than people on Earth, but much slower than we do. They live on a timeframe right between the human and the intergalactic.”
“There are galactic protocols between all humanoid states in the Milky Way,” Hasu chimed in. “This supreme code of conduct binds all men and women.”
“Are there a lot of human states in the Milky Way?”
“There are many worlds like Earth,” the old sage explained, “each in their own level of unfolding. Humankind has a right to be left alone, by extra-terrestrial do-gooders and internal exploiters alike. It’s called the Law of Non-Intervention.”
Mayama tried to understand. “Are these galactic star people different from you two?”
“We are all humanoid,” Hasu replied, “but I have to admit, we do like to trick humans, the star people from the Sirius Alliance and various other Milky Way cultures.”
“Especially if it serves a good purpose,” Bernard Shaw cut in.
Together, Hasu and Bernard made Mayama feel more at ease with her situation. She looked at up at her two her elder companions with renewed respect. “Why, thank you both for trying to cheer me up.”
The atmosphere in cubicle 143 changed to the kind of warm, cosy feelings usually reserved for happy families. Even so, she felt dazed like a bird that hit a window, boxed in by good intentions.
Mayama did not know how long she talked with Hasu and her teenage literary hero. Her sense of time was still undone, but she started to feel happy. Happy, but still a bit insecure. Inside her head voices kept nagging. Was she being uplifted by two friendly strangers to reach the goal of instant enlightenment? Or groomed towards an unknown destiny by two evil spirits; false fronts with silken tongues.
“I need to have a rest,” she announced.
Overtired, Mayama laid back down in her cubicle and closed her eyes. She almost dozed off, but was pulled back into a half-awake stage by Hasu’s pleading voice:
“Whatsoever you do Mayama, please don’t fall asleep. That can be dangerous at this stage.”
The last stage of spiritual illumination